


It was the finest moment in a long life

by ParadifeLoft



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Feanorian political shenanigans, Gen, pre-Flight of the Noldor, these character dynamics need a massage or something they're so tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-24
Updated: 2013-05-24
Packaged: 2017-12-12 19:47:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/815341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ParadifeLoft/pseuds/ParadifeLoft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the waning Years of the Trees, Celebrimbor is born, and the Silmarils are created. Forty years later, Fëanor is banished from Tirion. Little enough seems to change for Curufin's family in the interim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It was the finest moment in a long life

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt/request by [Juliana](http://croclock.tumblr.com), who wanted to see some more about the relationships between Curufin, his wife Hyellindë (my quasi-OC), and Celebrimbor.
> 
>  
> 
> As a note on naming, I refer to Curufin's wife by her chosen name/mother-name ( _amilessë_ ) most often in narration, reference, and so forth. Her father-name ( _ataressë_ ), is Ahtarmë, from _ahtar-_ which my dictionary glosses as "do back; react; requite, avenge".

_Then_

The gems, surely, were equal if not surpassing their craftsman now in radiance. Hyellindë would not think ever to deny it. Yet, that fact made her almost resent them, even as she found herself drawn to them in her awe.

And her son was awed, too - leaning out over her arms, eyes wide and glowing with reflected light, when he could usually be found tucked against her breast when she held him, peeking out to indulge his curiosity about the world with the promise of a safe anchor right beside him.

She had not, she supposed, (the thought trickled in bitterly, unwilling to let her be since it slid into her home along with the news), expected him to be replaced so quickly as the wondrous new pride of the House of Fëanáro. Not after what effort it took to even allow herself to _beget_ the child… an heir was second only to ensuring the alliance between their families, among the purposes for their marriage, and it had been years enough in the space between the two that both houses of her new cousins had managed to produce a grandchild each before her.

Long enough it had been, that Hyellindë had begun to grow ashamed of herself, in the intervening years: able to lay with her husband but not give herself to the fruits that such an act was supposedly designed to bear. How easy it was, to outwardly scoff at the thought that a child's strength of spirit might be sapped from her own - and yet not truly so simple, banishing the ghost that she'd so eagerly allowed a small home between her teeth and the tip of her tongue.

Though if amilessi were said to be prophetic, her ataressë at least had not proven less so: she'd found the motivation she needed most finally in the infant smiles of small royal children who more recalled Vanyar than the king or queen of the Noldor.

And now so much effort… Hyellindë could not call it _wasted_ , not when little Tyelperinquar would speak to them (full sentences, when he wished, and he was not yet even a year old), when he would watch closely, and when permitted slide his hands over, the works that she and Curufinwë would bring into their house from their workshops. When she could all but see the beauty he would forge, in their image and even farther eclipsing her own skill.

That did not make her bitterness any less when she compared the proud, fell shine in her father-in-law's eyes now to that from her memories of presenting to him her son.

"I have never seen another thing so beautiful," her husband exclaimed to her, in a fierce, reverential whisper. (If his father looked fell, _his_ expression gave more the impression of zealotry. She felt a stir of displeasure, tight anger, at the sight. Could he not take more pleasure at his _own_ work, at a _life_ he'd helped create? The jewels were stunning, certainly deserving of praise - but what she wondered more was whether he would hold such appreciation for them had they been wrought by any other.)

She was not quite certain she could manage the emotion she would need to accompany any placating words, at that moment. Curufinwë for his own part took her silence as a request to be further convinced, and put a hand to her elbow to bring her closer to the table and cushion they laid on. She let herself be led, though her heart and face remained falsely joyful in the manner of a not particularly skilled sculptor's etching.

Tyelperinquar leaned even further as they approached the table, wriggling against Hyellindë's grasp in an attempt to escape the confines of her arms. She readjusted how she held him to get a more secure grip, slipping the fingers of her other hand soothingly through his black curls, but as she did so, Curufinwë lifted one of the gems from the pillow and brought it up to him. Tyelperinquar's hands closed eagerly on the shining stone, and her husband pulled him from her arms to hold their son himself.

"Look how well he loves his grandfather's work," Curufinwë exclaimed. His voice, his smile, they were as genuine and as tender as she had ever seen them.

Hyellindë found her lips pressing together. Tyelperinquar moved as though to put the shining gem in his mouth, and Curufinwë, anticipating the movement, took it from his son's hands just as quickly as he'd brought it to him. His small, outstretched hands and the turn of his head followed the jewel's path as it was laid back amongst its fellows.

"You should go speak with your servants and have a bath drawn and good robes laid out for him," she said after a moment, nodding her head and then smiling faintly at Tyelperinquar when he turned his head at the sound of her voice, tearing away for a moment from the sight of the gems that entranced him. "While my family is here I should like to visit with my sister prior to our dinner."

Curufinwë gave a final glance at his father's gemstones, and then nodded at her, expressionless once more. Tyelperinquar, experimentally, curled in close against his chest, twining his fingers through the golden, jeweled chain about his neck and looking contented. Hyellindë stepped out of the room with a swish of her skirts.

 

.

_Now_

"I do not believe we should venture forth to Formenos at all."

Curufinwë's face curled into an even deeper scowl at Hyellindë's words, and he looked up from where he was arraying his books and scrolls into a large trunk. "No?" he asked, voice sharp and bearing little patience. "Do you hold some impression that I should be at all welcome in Tirion these next twelve years, in the estimation of either others or myself?"

Quick footsteps echoed off the ends of his words and a moment later Tyelperinquar's head poked into the room. He hovered at the edges of the doorway, twisting a half-folded tunic in his hands and fighting with the inordinate look of worry trying to spread across his features.

"You don't want us to abandon Grandfather?" he asked, posture tense and looking for reassurance. "Ammë?"

Hyellindë shook her head at her son, and then turned back to her husband. Truly, but he did try her patience. "I - and my parents and siblings, and our friends at court - we do not hold that _Fëanáro himself_ should accept this banishment," she clarified, words no less sharp than his had been. "King of all Arda, Lord Thúlimo may call himself, but such proclamations hold no meaning until we would abide by them just as we would those of King Finwë. And yet, you and your father _would_ so abide?"

The answer Curufinwë gave came without any hesitation; practised and rote, in sentiment and motivation if not in the actual statement. "Atar has his reasons, none of which involve bending the knee to the Valar." His glance shifted to Tyelperinquar, still watching the both of them intently. "Go finish packing your things."

Tyelpe vanished from the doorway, but from her own vantage point, Hyellindë could see the corner of his shadow stopping in the middle of the hallway that led to his rooms.

"And even if your lords disagree with acquiescing to the banishment, they will still follow us north," Curufinwë continued. He spoke archly, as though issuing a challenge. Well, he saw them everywhere; in a careless word from one of his brothers, in the presence of the guests his golden cousin brought to sit at his dinner table. And he certainly did not refrain from letting such sights be known. ("You do not need to write your displeasure to every lord and lady and servant within these walls with each time it comes upon you," she had once admonished him, though he had only replied that the discretion she advised was of no use unless said displeasure would be a weakness if revealed, or if it would compromise some aim he worked toward.)

Hyellindë sniffed, and inwardly she seethed, but she did not let it show on her face. What more was there even for her to _do_ in such a situation? She could not fairly convince her father, her mother, her sister, all the rest of their allies, not to follow the path of their High Prince even if they disagreed - for they would choose immediate support for his claim and his stance against Nolofinwë's favouring by much of the people of Tirion above making their own views against the Valar's authority clear. Nor could she convince her husband to make that same stance in remaining, for even if she appealed to his pride she knew from the sour memories of past conversations that the one thing his pride and cleverness bowed to was his devotion to his father.

Either option would require changing the opinions of Lord Fëanáro, and his was an ear she did not have.

"Then I too shall come north," she said, and bent her neck just enough to seem respectful before taking her leave to begin setting her own possessions in trunks as well.

Tyelperinquar's shadow skittered out of sight as she strode from the room, but before she passed the hallway he peeked his head out of his own doorway. Hyellindë glanced at him, and calculated that the time lost would not make much difference regardless. "What is it?" she asked, herding him back into his rooms and shutting the door behind her.

"Will my tutors be coming with us?" he said, neglecting to resume the packing he'd started, in favour of curling down onto a chair. She made a motion with her hand and he set his feet back down on the floor mid-way through drawing his knees up to his chest.

"Yes, they shall. I've no intention of repeating that search process," answered Hyellindë. And she doubted even that more than one of them, if that, would have chosen not to of their own accord; but those that might choose otherwise would be persuaded easily enough with benefits promised.

Her son nodded at that, and then, after a long, stretched moment of hesitation, proceeded to busy himself packing once more. Her signal that she was free to do the same, she supposed. But yes. Even though any replacement tutors they would have needed to find amongst those journeying to Formenos (or living in the area already) should easily enough live up to both of their standards, the tension that she would inevitably see in Tyelpe's manner when Curufinwë criticised the others' loyalty, the obsessive way that he would throw himself into his tasks as though attempting to purchase love and approval with devoted work - such things were undesirable parasites that she wouldn't abide in her house.

She did not mention it, in any case; but simply shut the door behind her once more, on the opposite side, and put out of her mind things that had little use in being mulled over for the thinking's own sake. She'd have thoughts enough, things to plan with some actual endpoint desired from them, to keep herself amused for twelve years now.


End file.
